


It Don't Mean A Thing If I Give You My Heart (If You Tear It Apart)

by skyline



Category: Big Time Rush
Genre: F/F, Oral Sex, Public Sex, post Big Time Scandal, text!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:19:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucy isn't happy about being forced to rebrand (and maybe she's a little torn up about the blond that got away). Mercedes decides to help. With her tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Don't Mean A Thing If I Give You My Heart (If You Tear It Apart)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Breila_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breila_rose/gifts).



> Courtney wanted a thing. I had Lucy feelings after the abomination of Scandal (she is not a pop princess okay, Lucy Stone is NOT Avril. Not that there's anything wrong with being Avril, it just makes zero sense after her original character introduction in Rocker). I wrote her a thing. Via text message.

Lucy didn't want to celebrate her first single hitting the airwaves.  
  
She said so, several times, and was summarily ignored. No one cared that there was a sense of loss there, in making Kendall's rejection permanent and in trying to let go. Especially not the record label invitees, filling her Barbie Party with their scary-white teeth and their perfect hair.  
  
Someone hands Lucy a glass that sparkles beneath the silver stars that spin, dizzying across the club's ceiling. Lucy tries to ask what's in it, but whoever offered it up is already gone.  
  
That’s how things happen in Hollywood; way too fast, but Lucy hides behind her facade and refuses to show any fear, just like a good (former) rocker girl. It's not tough as nails to be scared of these people, with their perfect plastic skin and their perfect plastic lives.  
  
But Lucy is. She really, really is. Every time they flash smiles her way, she feels like they might eat her for breakfast. They won't - they can't - because she's useful for now, with her skyrocketing fame. But one day, Lucy knows they'll try.  
  
She's intimately familiar with people like these, the kind that didn't make her time at high school hell, never mocked her red hair or guitar-callused fingers. They never picked her last in gym class or made sure nobody asked her to school dances. It was worse than all the movie clichés; people like these never did anything to her at all.  
  
They didn't know she existed. They _ignored_ her.  
  
They made her feel small when all she wanted was to be big and loud. She's in Hollywood to make her presence known to all the people who ever crushed her down, and right now, she's succeeding. But this town's a slippery slope, leading right back into anonymity.  
  
She knows that better than anyone, after her label bullied her into rebranding.  
  
Whatever. She can handle this. She's a (former) rockstar, a warrior goddess, and this is one little party. She can survive - with a little bit of help - so she chokes back the drink.  
  
Whiskey, ugh.  
  
It's about then that some guy walks up and asks for her autograph, but before he can finish the question, his date cuts in, "Who's this? And what is she _wearing_?"  
  
Lucy scowls. "I can hear you, you know."  
  
The girl meets her gaze imperiously, refusing to back down. Her eyes are warmer in the flashing lights of the club than Lucy expects. They're not anything like plastic.  
  
Lucy says, "I'm Lucy Stone."  
  
Fanboy's date replies, "And that’s supposed to mean something to me?"  
  
The autograph asker decides that is the moment to make himself scarce, abandoning them both to each other. Lucy hopes the girl, with her glossy blonde blow-out and her designer clutch purse will take the hint and skedaddle, but no such luck.  
  
She says, "Wait. You're the girl who wrote that song about Kendall Knight."  
  
"It wasn't about Kendall," Lucy replies immediately, the lie metallic on her tongue.  
  
The pretty girl rolls her eyes, shifting in a way that makes her sequined top blinding. "Yes, it was. Don't worry. I used to date Kendall too." She pauses and then adds brightly, "But I left him for another him. My name's Mercedes."  
  
Mercedes is one hundred percent Hollywood born and raised. She walks, talks, and breathes entitlement. If Lucy hadn't figured that out within five seconds of their conversation, she would have picked it up now, when Mercedes snatches her drink out of her hand and takes a deep swig.  
  
"Grody," she spits afterwards, making a comical face. "Don't you have vodka at this shindig?"  
  
"Want me to buy you a Cosmo?" Lucy shoots back sarcastically, deeply protective of her personal space.  
  
Mercedes is completely oblivious, replying, "Cosmos are so 2004."  
  
Lucy snorts. In 2004, Mercedes couldn't have been older than like, ten, and probably had no idea what a Cosmo was. Lucy was eleven back then, dreaming of fifty thousand dollar axes and her big break, and she knew, but only because her mom liked a nightcap during the evening mews.  
  
"I'm walking away from you now," Lucy decides, because this girl is an utter brat, the kind she's intent on avoiding.  
  
Only Mercedes grabs her wrist, her palm warm and soft, but string. She corrects, "No, I think you're buying me a drink."  
  
And for reasons Lucy will never understand, she caves, leading her brand new tormentor over to the bar and rummaging around behind it when the bartender isn't watching. She comes away with a bottle of Ketel One and a triumphant grin.  
  
Mercedes has the nerve to look pleased, a beatific grin transforming her face from indifferent to gorgeous.  
  
That is when Lucy begins to suspect she's screwed.  
  
They find a back corner table and take turns drinking down Lucy's contraband, laughing low beneath the constant thud of a bassline. Lucy almost feels bad about it - people are on the dance floor, milling near the bar, everywhere saluting her single, while she's getting totally hosed with this girl she's only just met.  
  
"What's it like to have your name up in all those lights and glitter?" Mercedes inquires wickedly. "Everything you hoped for?"  
  
"Better," Lucy says, even though she's not sure that's true.  
  
Shrewdly, Mercedes tells her, "No one blames you for cutting Knight down to size, you know. He's an ass. He needs to be told that every once in a while."  
  
"I don't care about blame," Lucy replies, because she's been taking responsibility for her own life decisions since the day she decided to quit classical music. Writing the song was impetuous and a little mean, but it's also one hundred percent true. She won't ever apologize for that.  
  
Mercedes takes a long pull from the vodka. Wiping her hand across her hot pink lips, she asks sensibly, "So what do you care about? Because look, I work in the record industry, and you are not wearing the Hells-Yeah- I'm-On-The-Radio face."  
  
Lucy winces.  
  
"I guess...I'm mad I fell for his act in the first place."  
  
"Why did you?"  
  
Good question. Lucy's type usually includes tattoos and scruff or fishnets and cigarette smoke. She's into devilish boys and wild girls; Anyone who looks like they might be bad news. Kendall, by contrast, is cornfed all American, the kind of guy whose big into traditions - lights off, missionary style.  
  
Butterfly kisses and holding hands during the act have never been Lucy's thing, but she thought with Kendall, it could've been. She thinks of moonlight and rose petals and the stutter-pump of hips, so very vanilla but also somehow sexy.  
  
It makes her feel stupid.  
  
She challenges Mercedes, "Why did you?"  
  
Smartly, Mercedes retorts, "I didn't. I left him, remember?" She considers, "But I guess I could have, eventually. He's not exactly hard to look at, is he?" When Lucy grimaces, Mercedes straightens and announces, "This isn’t working for me."  
  
"What isn’t?"  
  
Mercedes gestures vaguely at her. "All this sad sack moping. Look, I can fix this."  
  
"You can-" Lucy's words cut off sharply as she catches the vodka bottle Mercedes shoves at her.  
  
Because she can't hold it, climbing under the table and everything.  
  
"What are you doing?" Lucy hisses, glancing out toward the dance floor, at all the strangers throwing down. More immediately, she looks two booths down, where her manager and her producer are engaged in a somewhat heated argument that probably involves convincing Lucy to wear pink.  
  
Mercedes’s mouth touches the inside of Lucy's knee, and she instantly regrets allowing herself to be forced into a dress. In a perfectly normal tone of voice, the other girl says, "I'm showing you how to live a little." And then she inches Lucy's skirt up her thighs, while Lucy squirms and tries to figure out where she stands with all of this.  
  
It's about the time that Mercedes puts her mouth against the thin cloth of Lucy's underwear that she settles on it being an excellent life decision. She clutches the stocky neck of the Ketel One bottle, watching the lights clustered on the ceiling flash in time to the latest dance music while Mercedes laps at her in short, teasing touches.  
  
It doesn't take long for her to grow bored of the taste of lace. She pushes Lucy's panties aside, dragging her tongue long and slow against her. Lucy watches the curve of Mercedes's ankles and the curl of her toes in peek toe platforms, jutting out from under the table while she dips her tongue inside of her. The slick wet of it shoots through her bloodstream, forcing her to clench her fingers and swallow down a moan.  
  
Mercedes isn't so courteous, humming way too enthusiastically about eating Lucy out. The reverberations tremble through Lucy's muscles, intermingling with the heavy bass, making it _better_.  
  
Mercedes licks soft circles against Lucy's clit, the hazy silhouettes of dancers and industry supporters floating away, until all Lucy can concentrate on are glimpses of Mercedes's blonde hair beneath the table. She sips from the vodka bottle, the burn chasing down the noise she nearly makes, because Mercedes is introducing get fingers into the equation.  
  
Her stomach tightens hot and uncomfortable, and she wants, she wants, she _wants_. Mercedes touches Lucy deep, working her manicured fingers in time with her tongue, and Lucy can feel her smiling against her skin. Lucy abandons the vodka completely, settling the half empty bottle on the table and wending her hands in Mercedes's expertly tousled hair. She fucks herself against Mercedes's fingers and mouth until her vision starts to darken at the edges, molten heat in her lower belly pulling tight.  
  
She doesn't even realize her song's blaring over the speakers when she comes, everything too hot, too intense, too much. Her body goes rigid. Her toes curl in her boots. Mercedes's lips and her clever tongue guide her through it, both of them deaf to the sudden applause for the hip new single that Lucy created. She trembles through the last melodic strains, hauling Mercedes up from beneath the booth table and kissing her hard.  
  
Her manager’s approach for congratulations - and abrupt departure - goes unnoticed, because Lucy is occupied licking herself off of Mercedes's clever tongue.  
  
A touch too sassy, Mercedes pulls back and asks, "Feel better?"  
  
Lucy blinks, hypnotized by the honey brown of her laughing eyes. "About what?"  
  
"Exactly."


End file.
